


We Went and Did This Right

by sammyatstanford



Series: Come to Wonder [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Hunting, And all fluff, Breathplay, Established Relationship, Jealous Dean, Semi-Public Sex, Shower Sex, This is all porn, Unadulterated Fluffporn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-06-09 20:57:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6923080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sammyatstanford/pseuds/sammyatstanford
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean’s always so careful with this, with him. Giving Sam everything he wants and treating him like he deserves it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Went and Did This Right

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to all of my wonderful followers over on [Tumblr](http://sammyatstanford.tumblr.com), who make me smile and treat me nicely just because they are good people. An embarrassingly long time ago, I asked them to send me requests for kinks and scenarios to include in a fic as a thank you for all of their kindness. I got many great responses, and I have tried to include as many of them as possible here. 
> 
> Thank you to all of them, and all of you here, for your support!

Sam’s wearing a green button down with tiny white polka dots and a plaid tie under his V-necked cashmere sweater, and Dean wants to cut all of it off of him with a knife. It’s the only way he could get his brother undressed as fast as he needs him naked. Except Sammy would be a little bitch for days if Dean destroyed a sweater even he knows cost something like $300.

Still, Dean can dream.

“Dean? Did you hear me?”

He reluctantly draws his attention from twenty feet away where Sam is laughing at something his supervising partner has just leaned in to say, dimples out in force, and back to the tall, blonde, even-Dean-knows-she’s-inappropriately-dressed paralegal who’s engaging him in conversation.

“Sorry,” he replies with a little self-deprecating laugh. “I think I’m drunker than I realized.” False, he is nowhere near as drunk as he would like to be to deal with Sam’s _charming_ co-workers, since he has to drive Sam home later. Drunk driving is another thing Sam can be a little bitch about.

The woman, Marisa, laughs too. “Happens to me every year.” Her smile disappears when she leans in closer to Dean. “I was just saying, we were all so sorry to hear about Delilah. It must have been really difficult for Sam.”

Dean catches himself before the _Who?_ on the tip of his tongue manages to slip out. “Of course. But he’s a tough kid, you know, resilient.”

Marisa nods. “It just seems like this happens to him a lot.”

“It sure does seem that way,” Dean agrees, managing to suppress the smile at his own joke. “I’m not worried. We’ll manage. He’ll manage.”

“It was so nice of you to come with him again this year,” Marisa says, but her eyes aren’t on Dean now. They’re across the ballroom on his little brother in a way Dean is far too used to seeing, and yeah, Dean’s _so_ done with this conversation.

“Yep, I’m a great brother,” he says, and if his tone drops a little into iciness then she’s too distracted to notice. He turns halfway toward the bar. “I’m gonna get a refill, good talking to you, Marisa.” He doesn’t wait for her response before he’s moving away.

The bartender’s good-looking, too. Everyone at these parties always is, like high-priced lawyers are just too much better than everyone else to not have eye candy at their disposal at all times. Why Sam can’t ease Dean’s mind and work somewhere with a bunch of decrepit old men and women is beyond him, but he keeps it to himself.

Really, why Sam’s still doing this job when they both know it’s not where he wants to be is beyond him, but he’s adult enough to let Sam handle that one, too.

“Gimme a rum and tonic,” he tells the bartender before the guy even opens his mouth. He glances back over his shoulder, sees his brother gesturing with empty hands, and adds on, “And the Glenlivet, neat.” He watches the guy pour, trying not to tap his foot with impatience like a little kid, and almost snatches the drinks from the guy’s hands when he slides them over with a friendly, “Here you are, sir.” The bartender looks a little taken aback, and Dean feels like a dick, so he puts the drinks down with a sigh, pulls a twenty out of his wallet, and puts it on the bar.

“Thanks!” the kid says brightly.

“Mm, have a good one,” Dean replies, but it’s tossed over his shoulder as he makes a beeline around white-clothed tables and a seemingly endless swarm of people, finally sidling up to Sam’s side.

His brother is listening to a story from one of the other third-year associates, Vin, Dean thinks his name is. But he gives Dean a small smile and accepts his drink gratefully, long fingers against Dean’s against the etched glass of the tumbler and goddamnit.

Sam turns his way after a minute. “You’re my favorite brother,” he says, sipping at his scotch with a low-lidded look of satisfaction. He might as well be smacking his lips.

“I’m your only brother, bitch.”

“A fact I regret every day, jerk.” Sam sticks his tongue out, like he’s eight instead of twenty-eight, and Dean wants it in his mouth. Fucking office parties, with Sam all warm and friendly and well-dressed and in his element, with all these people Dean wants to pretend aren’t here so he can put his hands over Sam’s sternum and feel the beating of his heart.

“Dean!” someone says brightly in a voice Dean unfortunately recognizes, and Dean represses the groan that wants to come out as he turns to face the man addressing him. Harvey, with his blue eyes and $500 haircut and chiseled jawline, is Sam’s new managing partner ever since Sam moved onto the litigation team. Dean can’t fucking _stand_ him, can’t stand the way Harvey watches Sam walk out of the office every time Dean stops by from the hospital to grab lunch, the way he’s smooth and toxic like an oil slick.

“How are things at the hospital?”

Normally, that question is just sort of mildly annoying, in the same way as all other everyday bullshit is mildly annoying (and seriously, what do people think Dean is supposed to say to that question? People keep dying and I can’t save them?), but everything Harvey says makes Dean want to punch him in the mouth. “Oh, the usual.” He tries to keep his voice polite but he knows the smile isn’t reaching his eyes.

“Has Sam told you,” Harvey starts with an indolent little grin that is just _too fucking much_ , “we’ve been working on the most _interesting_ medical malpractice case—”

“Harvey!” Sam cuts in abruptly with a laugh that Dean and no one else in this room can tell is forced. Dean hadn’t even known his little brother was listening in that half-an-ear way he has, but it’s perfect timing. “Let’s not antagonize the doctor, shall we?” He pats Dean’s shoulder fondly, and Dean feels a little smug.

“Well, you know,” Harvey starts, and Dean misses the rest of what he says because he’s too busy watching Harvey _lean in_ to Sam’s space, bring the hand not holding his glass of wine up to cup around Sam’s elbow in a way that’s far too familiar, far too claiming for Dean to tolerate. Dean’s so far over this little gathering, how everyone here seems to think Sam’s pants are open for visitation since he “broke up” with his girlfriend, how he can’t put his hands on his brother in a way that would very clearly tell them to back off. And Dean may be in his thirties, he may be a doctor with other people’s lives in his hands every day, but he’s also a man, and he is not above deliberately spilling his drink down the front of Sam’s sweater in a way that looks like an accident.

“Shit!” Sam says, shocked by the wetness even through his layers, and then everyone around them is fumbling with cocktail napkins and Sam’s waving them off, blushing and glaring in Dean’s direction. “Let me just run to the restroom.”

He’s only gone for a second before Dean’s shrugging and turning that way. “I should probably apologize,” he says by way of explanation, and catches up to Sam in the hotel hallway.

As soon as they get away from the other partygoers, Dean catches Sam up against the wall next to one of the ostentatious pillars lining the hall, hooks his fingers under the black leather line of Sam’s belt to pull them flush together. He ducks his head in close to breathe in the smell of social sweat and expensive whiskey from his brother’s skin. _Fuck_ , he’s dizzy with it, that buzz he gets under his skin when he’s not allowed to have hands on his brother, when Sam keeps him at socially-acceptable arm’s length like he’s trying to do now, fingers gripping the lapels of Dean’s blazer and pushing to force air between them.

“C’mon, Dean,” he admonishes while Dean struggles against his grip, quick enough to flick his tongue under the line of Sam’s jaw and taste the salt there before Sam shoves him back again. “Anyone could come this way.”

“Don’t care.”

“ _I_ care. You don’t work with these people. If this were your work party—”

“Just one kiss, Sammy,” Dean says, demands even, that winning, wheedling grin on his face that convinces all the techs at work to run his tests first. They’re still close, Sam pushing only enough to keep Dean’s upper body away from him, and despite all his protests, Dean can feel his interest where they’re nocked tight at the hips. He gives his own a roll for good measure and doesn’t miss the quarter-down flicker of Sam’s eyelids in response.

They stay that way, too close to be kosher so that if someone did wander down this hallway, there would be no mistaking what was happening here, skin all hot through their layers and their breathing just a bit too rapid for normal. Dean’s eyes drag on all the angles of Sam’s face until his brother grits out, “Bathroom,” so grudgingly it must be like pulling teeth for him, but Dean’s chest swells up with triumph anyway as he locks their fingers together and releases Sam from his drywall prison.

Sam ends up ahead of him, pushing the door labeled ‘Powder Room’ in so hard that Dean worries briefly about the frosted glass inset of the door. Sam sets himself in front of the polished black stone of the sink, bracing his hands on the counter while Dean closes and locks the door behind them. He can see the way Sam’s gathering himself, trying to rein in the pulse of blood under his skin, which isn’t what Dean wants at all. He’s finished with this whole scene, served in full as the dutiful big brother, taking care of his hurting little boy’s heart, and now he wants to reap his reward, thank you very much.

But.

But.

He respects Sam, too. He’s thirty-two years old and capable of thinking beyond his dick. Not everything can be the hazy days when they’d first moved in together on their own, Sam a college freshman and Dean in his first year of med school, when they’d finally stopped dissembling and pretending and ignoring, when they’d finally given in to more than the starlit kisses on the hood of Dean’s Baby that they both promised again and again wouldn’t happen (again and again). The way they have to live in order to be together, to have each other and a lot of the other things they want, too—well, it’s a fact of their existence. Dean may not _like_ it, but that’s an issue for later.

He crosses the few steps it takes to get him up against Sam’s back, pressing his brother between him and cool marble, cupping his hands over Sam’s hip points and then dragging them back, down, under Sam’s sweater and dipping into the waistband of Sam’s slacks to untuck Sam’s button-up shirt until Dean is finally able to get his hands on the warm, sweat-damp skin underneath. Eyes locked on Sam’s in the mirror, he runs his hands down the sleek line of Sam’s spine, the deceptively soft skin that covers his kidneys, the tiptop of that lethal vee that directs Dean’s gaze right down to Sam’s cock when his little brother is naked. Sam’s skin is cool and slightly tacky when Dean drags his hands up to where the spilled drink soaked through his sweater, and Dean plays his fingers endlessly over the faint unevenness of the scar that lies along the skin there, feels that same internal frission he gets every time he touches it. His thumbs brush at Sam’s nipples, the reflection of Sam’s gaze growing heavier with every moment.

He leans in, pressing his forehead into the back of Sam’s neck until his brother’s chin tips downward, hair falling forward, and he can drag his teeth over the bumps of Sam’s cervical vertebrae. “When men get older,” he says into the skin there, “their libido decreases, they settle down, maybe lose a bit of interest in sex.” He peppers kisses along the back of Sam’s neck, the vulnerable line where hair meets skin, dragging his lips between and raising goosebumps on that tender skin. “And yet,” as he slips out his tongue to taste hidden sweat and the chemical bitterness of cologne, “I find you,” wraps arms all the way around Sam’s torso, pulls him in tight so that Sam’s head tips back and their eyes catch again in the mirror, “more irresistible than ever.” Sam’s dark, intense stare softens for a minute, picks up a note of something warm and deeply fond, but it snaps right back to heated when Dean draws two fingernails slow and deep over the vulnerable belly skin above Sam’s waistline.

“Wanna take you home,” Dean continues, feeling the way Sam’s breathing harder against him. “Wanna get you in our bed, wanna tear you out of every single one of these layers with my teeth until you’re bare for me, beautiful and _decadent_ , just for me.” He slides one of his hands up to thumb again over Sam’s nipple and lets the other slip free of Sam’s clothing, loosen Sam’s tie and flick the top button of his dress shirt open. “Lick you, taste you, flip you over and _eat_ you until you’re crying for me, begging for me to own you, and I will, sweetheart, you know I will.” Sam’s flushed in the mirror, lips parted, and he’s shaking against Dean, a fine trembling where they press together. He looks so fucking good Dean could die from it. Dean nuzzles down into the skin of Sam’s neck until he can sink his teeth into the tautness of Sam’s trapezius muscle, slips his hand out of Sam’s sweater, pulls Sam into him tight enough to slip his fingers down between Sam and the countertop, and squeezes teasingly at the bulge in Sam’s trousers. The other hand moves up, up, until it’s cradled around Sam’s esophagus, thumb resting below Sam’s mandibular joint, just enough pressure at his jugular veins to be a threat. A promise. Sam’s eyelashes flutter and Dean waits for them to open before he leans in, growls into Sam’s ear while he stares at Sam in the mirror.

“Wanna fucking take you apart.”

And all of a sudden Sam’s moving in his arms, and Dean’s not-at-all gently slammed into the wall behind him before he knows what’s happening. He forgets, sometimes, with the way Sam likes to be pliant, easy, go along with what Dean wants and how Dean moves him—he forgets just how fast Sam can be, how much power is locked up in that taken-care-of body, until moments like this when he’s got the doorframe pressing an uncomfortable line down his spine that he’s barely even conscious of because his little brother is folded down on to his knees and flicking open his belt with practiced deftness. He should tell Sam to stop, remind Sam that if make out-flush lips are difficult to hide, then post-blowjob lips are a dead giveaway, but his hand is in Sam’s hair and Sam’s got his mouth latched over Dean’s dick in his boxer briefs, breathing hot air into the fabric in a way that never fails to make Dean’s knees go weak.

Sam’s fingers draw Dean’s cock out into the air. Sam’s tricky, because he’s so damn good at repressing everything he’s feeling, and sometimes Dean doesn’t even know he’s gotten to his brother until he’s thunking his head back into the glass behind him as Sam wastes no time, just slips spit-wet lips over the crown and swirls his tongue over the head.

“Fuck, Sammy,” Dean groans, pressing himself forward into the hotwetmessy space of Sam’s mouth until the drag gets too dry, all the lubrication of Sam’s spit rubbed off his lips and left behind as they glide their way toward the base of Dean’s dick, and Sam has to back off, slick them up with broad swipes of that pretty pink tongue, and sink down again. “Fuck.”

“Quiet,” Sam admonishes him, and oh right, public bathroom, Sam’s office party. Although enforced silence isn't likely to help much, because anyone who walks by is going to see the silhouette of Dean pressed against the door, the wrinkled outline of his pants around his knees, a hand on the glass to steady himself as his baby brother takes him down deep. He’d be smart to move them at least into a more secluded part of the room, but Dean can barely control himself and it’s not his fault. When Sam was younger, he’d been an unintentional tease, sweetness and hesitancy and guilt in the way he moved and touched. And then he became one on purpose, just big and sexy everywhere, always knowing what Dean wants and never giving it. So it’s rare for Sam to get like this, all over Dean in a way that’s quick and hot and _needy_ , pupils dark under the fall of damp lashes, lips thin and red with satisfaction, and Dean can’t be blamed for the way it revs him up in return, makes his hips fuck choppy into the gap between Sam’s teeth until he can feel Sam’s body fight to reject him, feel Sam’s muscles fight to open up until Dean slides right on home. He’s been on edge since Sam came into their kitchen, dressed smart for the party and wearing those dark slacks that make his ass look fucking edible, and that possessive need to hold and hurt his little brother has been ramping him up for hours. There’s no way he’s gonna last, and although he knows he needs to be quiet, knows that if Sam has abandoned all sense and reasonableness to go down on him here, where anyone could come by and see and know, where anyone could bang on the door at any moment, then he needs to be the one in control. But he’s helpless, moaning and cursing and promising every little thing he’s planning to do to his brother when they get home.

“You gonna let me come in that mouth?” he asks, and Sam’s head tips back far enough to look at him demandingly. He hunches forward and slips a hand under Sam’s jaw, strokes his fingers up the bumpy cartilage protecting Sam’s esophagus and feels the way Sam shudders in return. “Would, would come all over that— _Jesus—_ that pretty face,” he adds, and Sam groans hungrily around him, and that’s it, can’t even finish his thought, just “God, Sam, fuckfuck _fuck_ you’re so—” and then he’s coming thick and right, deep down into the trap of his baby brother’s throat.

When Dean comes back to himself, Sam’s wetting a towel with cold water from the faucet, pressing it to the hot red smear of his lips, and his reflection is staring at Dean in a way that makes Dean feel like his blood is running with hydrochloride. “Get the car from the valet,” Sam says calmly, as though Dean can’t see his dick about to bust out of his slacks like that creepy Kool-Aid mascot through a living room wall. He splashes a little cool water on his face and towels that off. “I’m going to go make our excuses.”

Dean’s still staring, mouth a little open, when Sam puts one hand on the doorknob and reaches the other to the lock. “Now, Dean,” he finishes, and there’s definitely a thread of impatience in it. “Be waiting for me.” And then he’s gone, shutting the door behind him.

It takes another few seconds for Dean’s brain to come online, but then he can’t help the smirk that curls up his lips as he puts his dick away and goes to get the car.

***

By the time they make it home from the party, Sam’s about to come out of his skin. He’s the patient one, the one who likes to take his time, but god. He knows Dean’s whole Neanderthal, possessive routine isn’t supposed to do anything but piss him off—and Dean’s gonna pay for that little drink stunt—but hell if it doesn’t make him feel warm all over, loved and wanted and like Dean is never going to let him go.

Dean’s got him up against their condo door the minute he closes it behind them, lips sparking over his skin like little fireworks, hands undoing the hasty tuck-in job Sam had done on his sweater before he’d said awkward goodbyes to his coworkers. He’ll have to find a way to explain himself on Monday, but frankly, it wasn’t anywhere near the top of his priorities when he was escaping the ballroom with his erection tucked into his waistband like he was back in high school. Dean’s hands rub teasingly over his Adam’s apple before he undoes Sam’s tie and yanks it off with a _shush_ of silk, and Sam can feel his pulse throbbing in his cock.

Still, the fact that he smells like a bar is really not sexy, and his brother deserves at least _some_ admonishment for his behavior, so when Dean tries to spin him around to lean face-first against the door, he spins out of Dean’s arms instead, moves in the direction of the hallway. Dean makes a little lost puppy noise of confusion that makes Sam want to smile, but he represses it.

“I need a shower.”

Dean’s face falls and Sam could swear he almost whimpers. “What? Why?” He slaps on a smarmy grin that Sam shouldn’t find sexy but always does. “Just gonna get you all dirty again, sweetheart.”

Sam thins his lips. “Well, if _someone_ hadn’t spilled a drink on me…”

“Shut up.”

“…then I wouldn’t smell like a bar. But I do, so. Shower.” He undoes the buttons at his cuffs and throat, slow and casual like his heart isn’t drumming away with want inside his chest, and pulls off sweater, shirt, and undershirt all in one go, preening a little under the way Dean’s eyes track the stretch of muscle as Sam’s arms lift, the way he licks his lips and leaves his mouth hanging open like he forgot how to close it.

Sam tucks his shirts under his arm, starts working at his belt buckle before he turns and heads down the hallway. After a satisfying moment of taut silence, he turns back over his shoulder. “You could probably stand a shower too, hm?” He winks at his brother before continuing down the hall, and it’s seconds before Dean’s breathing heavy behind him, so close that Sam’s heels keep catching against Dean’s toes.

Sam passes through the bedroom, toes out of his shoes when he pauses to deposit his clothes in the hamper, and moves into their en suite. It’s big, one of the reasons they’d chosen this particular place when they’d finally decided to buy a condo after Sam got his offer at the firm. Plenty of counter space, because no matter how Dean likes to tease, they both have their fair share of hair products. A bathtub big enough to mostly fit two grown men, with Dean’s beloved Jacuzzi jets (Sam bought him a bath pillow for Christmas one year as a joke, but Dean doesn’t know that Sam knows he keeps it buried in the linen closet under their stack of pool towels, presumably for those weeks Sam is out of town taking depositions). And, most enjoyably for Sam, an enormous walk-in shower. When they’d toured the place, the real estate agent had gone on about clean lines and updated finishes and Sam had just stared at his reflection in the wide glass panel and thought _I’m gonna fuck my brother in there._

They do say that once you start imagining yourself in the space, you’ve bought the house already.

Sam undoes his slacks—hook, button, zipper—letting them puddle softly at his feet as he steps on the toes of his socks to wiggle those off as well. When he turns, stripped down to nothing but the red briefs that always make Dean stare, Dean’s leaning against the door, still fully dressed, eyelids heavy, bottom lip flushed white where his teeth press into it.

“Well?” Sam prompts.

Dean shrugs. “Don’t let me stop you.”

Dean’s got this thing about watching, and it fills Sam up with a careful, warm feeling that being the entirety of Dean’s attention has always given him, long before he ever understood what it meant. So he lets his brother indulge, strips naked and starts the water, steps under the spray. He cleans himself perfunctorily if a bit showier than normal, displaying all the most interesting sides of himself for the glass wall until it starts to fog over, head back and throat long as he washes shampoo out of his hair, the intensity of Dean’s stare all the way across the room still managing to give him goosebumps despite the hot water. When he’s about to start in on his body, he hears the door swing open behind him, shivers at the chill of his brother’s skin when Dean presses himself up all along Sam’s back.

“Since I’m the one who got you all dirty,” Dean says, reaching around to take the bottle of bodywash out of Sam’s hand. Sam grins in spite of himself. Sometimes, he feels like he’s chafing against Dean’s never-ending need to play big brother, to treat Sam like he’s still sick and fragile even though Sam’s big enough to take care of himself now. But times like these, well, he really doesn’t mind at all.

Dean lathers up a washcloth, drags it slow and careful over every inch of Sam’s skin before he tosses it to the side and soaps up his own hands instead. Those he uses to slide slippery over Sam’s cock and balls, up the crack of his ass, more fondling than cleansing. Dean walks them forward under the wide, hot spray of the shower, cleans the soap off his hands before he starts rubbing Sam down all over again, broad strokes of his hands to help rinse away the suds, across his shoulders, down his chest and following the line of Sam’s muscles down to grope at his half-hard cock again, around to his ass. Sam feels Dean sink to his knees behind him, those careful hands running down his thighs, over the bump of his knees, all the way down to the ticklish tops of his feet before they disappear and then reappear again, resting briefly on his lower back, and then Dean’s thumbs are spreading his asscheeks wide and Dean’s tongue is licking over his hole.

“Fuck, Dean,” he grinds out, the dual sensation of hot water and Dean’s tongue almost too much to process. He slaps his hands flat against the tiled wall in front of him and cants his hips back into Dean’s mouth, out of the stream of water so there’s nothing to smooth out the heavenly friction of Dean’s tastebuds. Dean makes that little hum against Sam’s skin that means he’s happy, and then he’s back to work, dragging the tip of his nose, the edge of his teeth over that secret skin, and then lapping at it with broad, wet strokes of his tongue that make Sam’s knees try to fold.

“You like that, sweetheart?” Dean asks, and his thumb comes to rest just under Sam’s asshole, massages at Sam’s perineum to get him loosened up for Dean’s tongue. “You like when I eat you out, get you all wet and ready for me?”

Sam wishes he could see his brother, eyelashes clumped wetly and spit on his chin, but he settles for pressing his forehead to the shivercool tile of the shower and shuffling his thighs wider as an answer.

“That’s right, baby,” Dean says, giving little licks all over the hypersensitive crack of Sam’s ass and not where Sam wants them at all. “Such a good girl for me,” and then he closes his lips over Sam’s hole and sucks, turns Sam’s words of protest into a whine that echoes against the tile. There’s no more talking from Dean after that, just the suck of his lips and the edge of his teeth and the press of his tongue, deeper and deeper as Sam’s body blossoms open for him, until he’s licking away at Sam’s insides and Sam is writhing against the wall, shower water stinging hot on his back and dick aching with blood and Dean’s mouth dragging him closer and closer to heaven.

By the time Dean stands up and shuts off the water, Sam’s shivering hard, fine muscle tremor all the way down the back of his legs that has nothing to do with the chill of the air creeping in. He’s aching, he _wants_ , loose and needy where Dean’s tongue-fucked him sloppy, whole body livewire ready for attention. Dean grabs a towel off the hook, tosses it playfully over Sam’s head with a growled, “Dry off,” and Sam complies. He’s got thick, soft cotton over his ears, so he doesn’t hear what Dean’s doing around him, assumes his brother’s toweling dry too when instead he feels two wet fingers slipping between his asscheeks to stroke at the looseness of his hole, and he startles sharply.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he breathes, and it’s muffled by the towel but Dean must get the message because he chuckles low as he presses those long fingers steadily in.

Sam groans, drags the towel off his head. “If you wanna fuck in the shower, why’d you turn off the water?” It’s not supposed to sound so stilted, but Dean’s got those surgeon fingers playing and Sam’s only a man.

“Just gettin’ you nice and ready for me, sweetheart. You open up for me so good.” Dean’s breath on Sam’s cheek feels warm and wet even in the humid air, and Sam turns his head, catches Dean’s mouth against his, kisses him to the rhythm of Dean’s fingers moving inside his body. Dean smiles as he pulls back. “Besides, shower sex is a little complicated.” One of those fingers brushes with expert precision over Sam’s prostate and he swears again, does it even louder when they slip out, leaving nothing but that cold, empty feeling inside him, ten times worse now that it had been from Dean’s mouth.

A hand comes down hard on his left buttcheek, shockingly loud with the water on his skin and the echo between the glass walls of the shower, and Sam jolts at the sting, the flush of warmth it leaves behind. “Get on bed for me, Sammy,” Dean orders, heated and fond, and Sam dries himself off hastily, drops the towel on the bathroom floor so he doesn’t waste time hanging it up, follows the freckled curve of his brother’s ass with his eyes and his feet out into their bedroom and crawls onto the mattress in a way that’s probably not sexy at all but he’s moved past caring, moved past teasing, wants Dean inside him, wants to come with his brother so locked up that they’ll never come apart again.

“Dean,” he says, and it sounds like begging. Dean moves over him, the amulet on his necklace hanging down to brush cold against Sam’s skin. He wasn’t wearing it in the shower and the metal hasn’t warmed back up to body temperature.

“Look at you,” Dean rumbles, and the look on his face makes Sam blush, “all spread out for me. Those long, long legs, all this skin.” He drags blunt fingernails all the way up Sam’s torso, hooks his hand around the back of Sam’s neck.

“Dean,” Sam says again, but the sound of it gets swallowed up by Dean’s tongue. Dean loves this, making out like horny teenagers, and Sam could let him do it for days, all but forgets the hot simmer of need under his skin, a new spark igniting in his belly at the lazy drag of their tongues together. The kiss is languid and dirty, Dean’s hands gentle and demanding on either side of Sam’s face so that Sam feels surrounded, warm, loved. Dean tastes like sweet rum and the medicinal tang of quinine, and Sam sucks on his tongue until he does, too.

“So perfect for me, Sammy,” Dean murmurs around the drugging catch and slide of their lips, kisses Sam until Sam’s dizzy with it. “Looked so fucking sexy tonight, sweetheart,” as he drags his lips over Sam’s end-of-day stubble and Sam grabs at the back of his head, wants to keep him just this close. “Wanted you, wanted to show everyone—.” He bites into the tender skin behind Sam’s ear, where the evidence will be covered by Sam’s hair tomorrow. Sam whimpers. “Yeah, baby, that’s it.” And still to this day, Sam thinks he could come just from the fucklow growl of Dean’s voice against his skin, the mingling of their breath. “Gonna fuck you, hm?”

Sam doesn’t answer, doesn’t need to because Dean’s already drawing himself away, two fingers slipping just into Sam’s hole to draw him open, Dean’s cock following right behind. Sam’s body just gives it up for him, open and slutty for his big brother like he always is, no resistance there at all if it weren’t for Dean’s deliberately superficial prep job, because Sam likes the sting, needs just that edge of sore and used to feel right. Because Dean likes to open Sam up with his dick, fuck in slick and not at all easy, jerks of his hips that are slow, sharp, a little deeper each time until Sam’s wild with it, every fresh inch of his insides lighting up at the sensation, the stretch, the heatpainpleasure. He cradles Dean’s body against his, thighs sweat sticky against Dean’s flanks, knees bent wide and shins hooked together around Dean’s back to pullpullpull his brother in tighter, closer, fuller.

Dean always gets this look when he’s pushing his way into Sam’s body for the first time, this too wide set to those green eyes gone dark that Sam likes to believe is amazement, the same consuming feeling of connection and perfection that he himself can barely hold in, that makes tears press hot and insistent behind his eyes for just a moment every time the two of them share the hungry thing between them in just this way. Sex with Dean is a singularity, a totality, and sometimes it’s all Sam can do to claw in and hold tight.

Dean stays there, seated deep, eyes locked with Sam’s and his stuttered exhales fluttering hot on Sam’s skin, and then he murmurs, “Yeah,” and lets his eyes fall closed and rolls his hips to drag his cock back out again and Sam’s whole body aches empty for a breath, hurts with wanting, so he can’t be held responsible for the noise of utter fulfillment that Dean’s cock forces out of his throat when he thrusts back in, sudden and fierce.

He keeps Dean close, relishes the heat and damp of sharing skin, and Dean makes his home inside Sam’s body until Sam’s bones melt molten gold with the pleasure of it, the stretch of his rim around the slide of Dean’s cock, the span of his hands over those strong muscles working steady to keep Dean’s hips grinding in so deep, the insistent arch of his own spine as he lifts his hips to meet Dean’s thrusts, get his brother were he wants him harder, faster, moremoremore. He’s talking but not listening, deaf to every sound that isn’t the lowdown rumble of satisfaction in Dean’s chest, the slick sounds of Dean’s dick filling all the empty places inside him, the little endearments pressed into his skin with Dean’s tongue, teeth, spit. Dean’s got one hand in a bruising grip on his ass, the other buried in his hair, and Sam feels complete.

He’s too on edge to last, whole body ready to give it up for his big brother just from the pressure on his cock between their bodies even though part of him wants to be here forever, too close for anything to get between them, drowning in saltsweat and oppressive need. And as ever, Dean seems to know, draws himself away when Sam’s close enough to whine at the loss, doesn’t stop fucking Sam but eases the roll of his hips to something oceanwave steady. “Not yet,” he says, voice a little strained and shoulders heaving, and Sam’s not sure if he’s talking to Sam or himself, or maybe both.

“Been teasin’ you all night, sweetheart,” Dean goes on, a little firmer now, and he spreads his knees wider to support the weight of Sam’s body, takes his hand off Sam’s ass, smooths it down the hollow of Sam’s hip to toy with his cock, make him curse and roll his body down onto his brother’s dick desperately. That hand flirts its way up Sam’s chest, a thumb dipped into his bellybutton, a pinch at his nipple, and Sam knows where this is going, feels his whole body go tight with anticipation that shudders right out of him and into the mattress when Dean cups his palm over Sam’s throat and _presses_.

“Fuck,” Sam whimpers, and Dean’s smile grows wicked.

“That’s my boy. You want it, sweetheart?” Dean’s hips still completely, dick snugged up to Sam’s insides, hand like a brand across Sam’s esophagus, and Sam doesn’t want, he _needs_.

“Yes,” Sam whispers.

Dean clucks his tongue, pulls his cock nearly out of Sam’s body in a drag so slow Sam feels it the whole way, and then fucks back on in harshly, leans a little weight onto the hand on Sam’s throat. “Come on, Sammy, ask me nicely.”

“Please,” Sam asks, voice sounding just a little high in his ears.

Dean, the fucker, keeps grinning, keeps fucking his hips shallow and lazy, keeps squeezing gently. “Please what?”

Sam licks his lips. “Please choke me.”

“Well since you asked so nicely,” Dean replies, changes his grip on Sam’s throat so that instead of a wide palm blanketing the skin, he’s cradling it, thumb and forefingers primed over Sam’s carotid arteries, palm easy over his esophagus, no pressure that could hurt him but the weight still there, the presence of it telling Sam that Dean _could_. Dean’s always so careful with this, with him. Giving Sam everything he wants and treating him like he deserves it. Dean had been more than reluctant at first, still has his hard limits of how far he’s willing to push things (‘ _do you know what happens to the brain when it’s deprived of oxygen, Sam?_ ’) but still, he gives. And Sam knows it’s dangerous, but it makes him feel so _safe_ , his life in hands he trusts infinitely, the hands of a man that has been willing to give up everything for him since before either of them really understood what it meant.

And all of that’s nothing on the way just the hint of what Dean’s about to do makes his cock spurt wetness where it’s already drooling against his stomach.

Dean puts his free hand over the scar down the center of Sam’s chest. “Start counting,” he orders, increases the pressure of his fingers over Sam’s vital arteries and Sam’s eyes try to roll back up into his skull. His head feels overfull, skin stretched thin by the blood trapped in his brain, and his voice is tight as he slow counts up to eight before the pressure suddenly disappears.

Awareness of his body come rushing back in with the flood of oxygen to his brain cells, an overwhelming wave of sensation that makes everything so much _more_ , the sweat on his skin, each electric point of contact between his body and Dean’s, the unbelievably good burn of his hole stretched around the thickness of Dean’s cock, moving inside him again, splitting him in two from the inside.

“Jesus,” Dean groans out, hitching his hips so he goes just a little deeper, “get so fuckin’ tight when I do that.” And Sam can’t do anything but nod before Dean’s fingers are pressing in again and he loses track of everything around him, counts it out for his brother until Dean eases up, and the cycle repeats itself over and over. Dean can’t fuck him very hard like this, one hand on Sam’s throat and one over Sam’s heart, only the work of his hips to keep them moving, Sam helping where he can by planting his heels on the mattress and lifting himself up, but to Sam it hardly matters. He gets higher and higher every time all that sensation floods back into his body alongside the air, until everything is too sharp, too sensitive, until he feels the sting of tears in his eyes and he’s gasping out “ _Please_ ,” in between every number.

Finally, _finally_ , Dean gives in, takes his hand off Sam’s neck and grabs Sam close, puts Sam’s knees up near his own ears, fucks into him fierce and needy because Sam sometimes manages to wear out even the patience of a surgeon. “Touch yourself,” Dean growls against the tendersoft spot at the hinge of Sam’s jaw, and Sam squeezes his hand into the sultry space between their bodies, presses the heel of it down to massage over the head of his dick as Dean takes his mouth in a kiss that’s all spit and shared breath. He’s been hurting for it so long, dick hard since he blew Dean sloppy in that bathroom, and it takes next to nothing now, just the firm grind of Dean’s cock against his prostate, the grind of his own hand in time to the rock of Dean’s body against his, and Sam’s coming, mind whiting out and making a filthy mess of the space between their bodies, come up to his own chin and all over Dean’s belly, too. Dean fucks him through it, his thrusts going increasingly uncoordinated. Sam goes lax and pliant underneath him, and Dean bends him somehow more, face buried in Sam’s shoulder and Sam’s arm’s loose around his neck, lips mouthing carelessly at his hairline until minutes later, he’s coming too, shaking as he falls apart in Sam’s arms.

Between the sex and the whiskey, Sam’s sleepy almost immediately, makes a noise of tired protest when Dean shoves a fistful of tissues between Sam and the bed and pulls out. But Dean patiently coaxes him to standing, and they both stumble into the bathroom, clean themselves up, Dean holding him close with one arm while they brush their teeth.

They slip back into bed together, and Sam’s asleep before Dean even switches off the light.

***

Sam wakes up in stages, in a way he never gets to enjoy when his alarm goes off at 6:30 on weekdays. He wiggles his toes as his body slips into awareness, stretching where he is until he’s ready to blink his eyes slowly open.

“Mornin’, sleepyhead,” Dean’s gruff voice teases gently from behind him. Sam rolls over, not bothering to stay in place so that he ends up sprawled halfway in his brother’s lap. Dean’s sitting up against the headboard, one of his medical journals in one hand, folded open so that Sam can’t see the title. Dean sets it aside, smiles softly as he strokes a hand into Sam’s hair, and Sam turns his face into the sheets puddled at Dean’s waist and lets himself be pet for several quiet moments.

“Run away with me.” Dean’s voice is so quiet, Sam barely hears him.

He laughs and looks up at his brother. “I kinda already did,” he says, grinning.

Dean grins a little distantly, but his gaze quickly grows serious again. “I know that our life here is good, that you have friends and—but I—I want to….” He trails off and turns his face away and Sam can see him shutting down.

“Hey hey hey,” Sam coaxes, pulling himself up to sitting and scooting in close. He’s still a bit groggy, but whatever is going on in Dean’s head is clearly too important for Sam to let it die. He catches up Dean’s hands where they’re resting, rubbing gentle circles over the backs of them with his thumbs. “What is it?”

“It’s nothing,” Dean says, pulling away like he’s gonna get out of bed. “Do you want pancakes or—?”

Sam tugs on his brother’s hands until Dean stills. “Dean, stop. Look at me.” He puts a hand on Dean’s cheek, draws Dean’s reluctant eyes back to his, gentles his thumb over the wrinkles fanning outside from the corner. Dean looks more handsome every year, every minute. “Come on, big brother. You know I’d do anything for you.” It could be flirty, but he keeps it soft, serious.

Dean’s hand comes up to cover his as Dean leans into the touch, lets his eyes fall closed. “I want to be with you, Sammy.”

Sam’s confused, understandably he thinks, because well, he’s not sure how they can be anymore _with_ each other, last night being a good example. “Baby, we’re pretty damn together.”

Dean’s eyes fly open then, frustration all over his face. “Damn it, Sam! I want—I wanna take you out, I wanna fuckin’ touch you, hold your hand in public.” He cups Sam’s face in his palms, pulls it in close to his. “I want people to know what you mean to me.”

Sam’s heart clenches painfully in his chest. Dean’s loving, but he’s reserved, too, and it’s rare for him to get like this when sex isn’t involved. “I want that, too. You know I do.”

Dean lets him go, but he’s not running away anymore. “It’s not that I’m unhappy here, but. But I wonder. What if we moved, somewhere new, somewhere no one knows us. What if when we got there, we were—.” He looks down at his hands, and Sam can see the distinct pink tinge of his cheeks in the morning sunlight slipping around the curtains. “If we were…husbands.”

Sam can’t help the smile that breaks out over his face, the way he lights up inside so bright he’s probably glowing. The fact is, there’s always going to be something missing for them. Dean isn’t just his partner, he’s Sam’s brother, and he isn’t just Sam’s brother, he’s the love of Sam’s life. No one can ever really know, ever really understand what they are to each other, but there’s something Sam likes about having this secret, just for them. And it is a nice thought, not having to lie to everyone he knows, everyone he meets, about fake girlfriends and long distance relationships.

“Why, Dean Winchester,” Sam says, clasps fake-bashful hands over the jump of his heartbeat, “are you proposing to me?”

“Shut up,” Dean huffs, but any further protests are cut off by Sam climbing bodily into his lap, pressing their foreheads together so tight it’s a little painful.

“I love you,” Sam whispers, and then he’s laughing and they’re kissing and it’s messy and yearning and perfect.

“I just have one question,” Sam asks a little breathlessly, minutes later, back pressed to the mattress and a hand brushing through Dean’s morning soft hair as his brother drags his lips in hypnotizing lines over Sam’s torso. Dean replies with a drowsy, questioning hum against his skin.

“You wanna hold my hand in public?” Sam teases, and then squawks indignantly when Dean sinks his teeth into the vulnerable skin of his belly.

Yeah, it’s perfect.


End file.
